


A Brokered Peace

by incandescent (lmeden)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She feeds her peaches, because she is young, and has not been truly loved in a very long time.</p><p>Also: spring, kneel, negotiation, melt, sow, peaches</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brokered Peace

Daenerys Targaryan – Stormborn, Unburnt, and Mother of Dragons; Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea; Breaker of Shackles, Queen of Meereen, and Princess of Dragonstone – watches as the woman climbs the steep hillside to greet her. 

She moves steadily, despite the incline and the fact that she must lift her skirts high above the thick grasses that endeavor to tangle around her ankles and trip her up. Her eyes are cast downward, and her thick red hair flows free and heavy down her back. Daenerys could go to assist her, or send one of the guards to do so, but doesn’t. Let the daughter of the Wolf come to her, and suffer for it. Daenerys’ patience has worn thin. 

Finally, the woman reaches the top of the hill and lets her skirts drop. She steps gracefully forward and falls to her knees, mere instants before Daenerys’ guards would have reached out to force her down. Dany stares down at her heaving bosom, which is framed by soft folds of fabric. The woman’s face is calm, despite the sheen of sweat upon her brow. 

“My Queen,” she says, and bows her head. “I have come to speak for the North.”

Daenerys regards her for a long moment, and then turns away. She gestures to the guards and says, “Come, then. We will speak where there are no ears to hear us, and soft cushions beneath our feet.”

The woman’s dress rustles beneath her feet and she follows her Queen, nearly silent. 

Dany finds it hard to believe that, by all accounts, Sansa Stark is but two years younger than her. Her bearing, the soft lines around her mouth, and the darkness in her eyes would have easily tricked her into believing that Lady Stark was much older. 

-

Daenerys sweeps the skirt of her dress aside and settles easily onto the cushions in her tent, her legs folded and bare beneath her. The Lady Stark pauses, staring all too obviously, before settling herself, obviously uncomfortable. Dany hides a smile and waves to one of the girls standing around the edges of the tent. When she approaches, Daenerys says, “Bring me a knife.”

The girl does so, and Daenerys sends her away. The Lady Stark’s chin has risen, as if in challenge, so Dany lets the blade rest in her lap. No need to let her know that Dany has several blades already hidden on her person. That is a secret better kept for more desperate times. 

She leans over the cushions and reaches for the platter of fruit that has been laid out. She picks one off the top – ruby-red and softly fuzzed – and draws it close. 

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys says. “You have come to me in peace, and left your army behind to do so. You have placed yourself at great risk.” She lifts the knife and gently begins to slice into the fruit. Juice bleeds from it, dripping down her wrist, the color of sunlight. She leans close, and with a flick of her tongue, licks it up. “I admire that.”

She looks up to see the Lady Stark watching her with wide eyes. 

“Please,” she says. “My Queen. If you would, the Lady Stark was… _is_ my mother. I would have you call me Sansa.”

“As I have heard, your mother is in no fit state to rule the North. By rights, then, the title of Lady Stark falls to you.” Daenerys says this calmly, and watches the quiet grief flash through her eyes, forced down by rigorous training. 

“It is true,” Stark says. “But we are to be friends, are we not?”

Dany allows herself a smile at that. “Of course.” She lifts a thin slice off of the peach and sucks it into her mouth. Ah, perfectly ripe. 

The knife slips around the hard pit and another slice of fruit falls into Dany’s hand. She leans forward and offers it. 

“Would you like to try some, Sansa?” She gives a smile as well. Sansa reaches out, hesitating almost imperceptibly, and Dany spares her any embarrassment by saying, “Since we are friends.”

With an insincere smile, Sansa takes the slice and eyes it. Then, well aware of Daenerys’ gaze, she places the slice between her lips and bites down. 

Her eyes immediately fly wide. “Ah!” she gasps, and then regains control of herself. She turns her delight into a soft smile and says, “It’s so sweet. Lovely. I’ve never had anything like it.”

 _There was her youth_ , Dany thinks. _A flash, and then gone._

“You must have carried it across the sea. Thank you for the gift.”

Dany smiles at her. “Have another,” she says, and hands Sansa another slice. The golden flesh slips quickly between Sansa’s lips this time, and the pleasure on her face deepens. 

Dany watches her relax; her posture becomes no less perfect, but much easier, and there is a softening at the corners of her eyes. Dany fancies that the next smile she receives is genuine. 

“You have been much misused,” she says. Sansa Stark had brothers, once, or so Daenerys has been told. _They could not have been worse than Viserys_ , she thinks. “You must stay here awhile, and rest.” Daenerys stands, allowing her skirts to fold around her once more. She folds her hands before her.

Sansa blinks for a moment, then stands abruptly. She brushes at her skirts. “My Queen, I came to—”

“I know,” Daenerys says. “And we shall. But for now, I wish you to rest.”

Sansa’s next words are bitten back with visible effort. She drops into a low curtsey instead, and Dany has to marvel at the degree with which she hides her anger in the gesture. “Of course, My Queen.”

“I will call for you soon,” Daenerys says, and the guards step inside to escort the Lady Stark out. 

She turns, and in several graceful strides is gone, leaving only the flap of the tent fluttering after her. 

-

“I am told that they love her,” Missandei says, whispering the words into Dany’s ear. She is of the same height as Dany, and within a few months will likely be taller. Dany finds the change astounding. 

“Love who?” she asks, watching her chosen and guests dine around the deep fire-pit. 

“The Lady Stark, of course. Her armies love her beauty and grace, and they follow her for her strength.”

“What are we to do with her, then?” She watches Sansa speak stiffly with the Lords of the Three Sisters – also under Daenery’s care for a time. 

Missandei’s dark hair glints in the firelight. “You must make her yours. Once she is so, all those who love her will follow, and they will be yours as well.” She reaches out and rests a hand on Dany’s shoulder, leaving it for just long enough to startle, before stepping back into the darkness. 

-

Daenerys summons her in the dead of the night, when the fires are banked and the moon is setting. 

Sansa’s hair, unbound, falls over the robe she’s thrown on against the nighttime chill. She ducks in through the doorway of Dany’s tent and falls into a deep curtsey. “My Queen,” she murmurs, sounding for all the world as if being woken and summoned out a dead sleep is a usual thing. 

Dany beckons her closer, and the guards step out of the tent. Sansa comes, and Dany reaches out to brush her fingers across her cheek. She steps around her, touches the curl of her hair. 

“You must be exhausted,” Dany says. “My spies tell me that you’ve ridden for days to reach me.”

“Spies?” Sansa sounds affronted at the very word, and Dany smiles. She steps around to Sansa’s front once more. 

“I like to know what’s happening in my realms. Especially when they haven’t yet sworn fealty to me.”

Sansa nods. “Of course.” She pauses for an instant before continuing. “Why did you want to see me?”

Dany reaches out and takes both of Sansa’s hands, then sits, pulling the girl with her. “I am often lonely,” she says. “There are so few here who understand how hard it is to command an army. They love me, but they do not know me. I wished to speak with you.”

“My Queen, I do not presume—”

“But I do.” Dany reaches out and touches the edge of Sansa’s robe. She pulls it gently back to reveal her thin nightdress. Sansa shivers and pulls back. “No, wait,” Dany whispers. “I won’t hurt.”

She slips her hand in under the fabric and lays it upon Sansa’s thigh. When she glances up, Sansa’s lips are parted and her eyes wide. 

“Don’t look so shocked,” she chides, and presses her hand harder against Sansa’s thigh. Sansa moves backwards, shifting to pull her feet out from under her. Dany is quite sure, for an instant, that Sansa means to kick her. But the moment passes.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks. 

“Because I want to,” Dany says, and slides her hand higher. Sansa’s breath catches; she leans back and watches Dany’s hand as if it holds a weapon. “And because you want to.”

Sansa’s gaze snaps up to meet hers, and even in the half-light cast by the braziers, Dany can see the flush in her cheeks. She rises to her knees and moves forward. Sansa places a hand on Dany’s chest, right between her breasts, and holds her back. 

“Wait,” she whispers, gaze searching. 

“No,” Dany says, and moves forward to kiss her. 

Sansa’s lips are warm and chapped, and she lets them part into the kiss. Dany moves forward, pressing her down into the cushions. Sansa’s hand doesn’t move from her chest, keeping them apart. Dany sighs and shifts her own hand, pressing against her cunt. 

Dany watches Sansa’s eyes widen, and she twists underneath her. “Ah,” Dany murmurs against her lips. “Patience.”

She pulls her hand back and grasps the fabric of Sansa’s nightdress. She pulls at it, lifting until she feels the edge against her fingers, and then snakes her hand under it, pressing against Sansa’s warm hair and flesh. Sansa’s thighs shift together. Dany threads her other hand through Sansa’s hair, pushing it away from her eyes. 

“You cannot do this,” she says, and Dany pulls back. 

She releases Sansa’s hair and her lips, and sits back on her heels. She pulls her hand from Sana’s cunt and lets Sansa sit, shove her nightdress down over her thighs. 

“Do you really not want this?” she asks, and lifts her hands. She works the straps of her own dress off of her shoulders and lets it falls to pool around her waist. “I saw the way you watched me.”

Sansa shakes her head. “No. You must be mistaken. I meant no disrespect.”

“And none was taken.” Daenerys allows herself an arched brow. She shrugs and stands, and her dress remains upon the ground. She bends to collect it and drapes it over her arm. “I fear we both need our rest, now.” She sits upon the piled cushions and blankets that serve as her bed in this chill land. Already, her skin is pimpling at the nip in the air. 

She lays back and lets her gaze rest upon Sansa – her bare collarbones and thighs, the restless motion of her hands. Sansa stands, adjusts her robe, and is covered. She steps forward, to the edge of the bed, and drops down into a curtsey once more. 

“My Queen,” she whispers. 

“Oh,” Dany says, and reaches up. “I want only what you’re willing to give. Nothing more. You need not fear me.”

She draws Sansa down, and this time when they kiss, she closes her eyes. 

-

The Lady Stark’s hair is plaited as she turns away from Daenerys, gathered all upon her head. She walks to the beginning of the slope, and then stops. She turns back halfway. 

“You need only send for me, My Queen,” she says loud enough for all to hear. “I will come.”

Daenerys nods and smiles. “So you shall.”

Sansa descends.


End file.
